


Roses and Salt

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chronic Illness, Dreams and Nightmares, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Polyamory, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-06-17 08:32:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15457380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: For the prompt: "Love at first sight."In which Treville needs decent coffee in his life, Richelieu becomes flustered and Louis is already shipping it.





	1. Chapter 1

The adrenaline was fading, but there was still enough coursing through his veins to make Inspector Treville jittery. Every officer had been on call tonight and on high-alert as they’d waited for the suspect to come out of hiding. And he had, in the end.

There was no use in sitting at his desk at the station, trying to sort through the paperwork when his legs wouldn’t stay still. Turning the knob in the shower so that the water turned icy and chucking his dirty shirt into his locker before stepping below the shower head had woken him up by valiantly attempting to freeze his body, but it hadn’t calmed down the thrumming restlessness. Changing into a clean shirt and combing his hair had also helped with chipping away at the exhaustion lingering around the edges of his mind, but there would be no sleep until he’d reported back to his superiors.

So now he was standing in front of the broken coffee machine, willing it to work.

 Athos, Porthos and D’Artagnan were shoveling leftover potato gratin into their mouths and trading stories of what they’d been up to earlier. Aramis was on the phone with one of his girlfriends.

“I’m going out for coffee,” Treville told them. “Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”

The chilly morning air was a balm on his soul. The gentle spring breeze dried his hair and beard as he strode towards the nearest café that didn’t burn its coffee to death.

The sun was just rising over the city, bathing it in a golden glow.

He’d reached the door when a sleek dark car parked in front of the café, so well-polished that it gleamed. Treville swallowed, thinking of the hours he’d spent polishing antique armor and silver cutlery as a teen, things that had been in the family for such a long time that no one could remember when it had come into their possession. They’d never sold it or locked it away…

Treville had reached the door when a tall man stepped out of the car, the soft breeze tugging at the hem of his bespoke jacket. And then he smiled at Treville, a small if baffled smile as if the man was trying to remember something just out of his reach.

“Good morning,” Treville managed, opening the door for the gentleman purely because some social niceties have been drilled into you so well that they become a failsafe reflex. He took in the grey curls and intelligent eyes and the deep red tie.

Something about how the man moved was so familiar it was almost haunting. He looked like something out of a dream.

“Have me met before?” Treville asked, furrowing his brow. He’d found it was better to ask directly, he’d found. Attending so many seminars on work safety and endless press conferences meant that he met so many people that he could never keep track.

Hopefully he’d never arrested the man.

“Well-“ the man begun, with the ease of someone used to speeches and the public eye. “I hope that if that were the case I’d remember-“

“Good morning,“ said a familiar voice as his old friend Louis stepped out of the same car, looking half asleep. “Nice to see you again, Treville.”

“Likewise,” Treville said, crushing the urge to rub the grit from his eyes. “It’s been a long time-“

“Are you trying to arrest Richelieu?” Louis asked, glancing between him and the stranger. “Because if you are, he’s guilty of waking me up at this ungodly hour just so we can attend some idiotic meeting.”

“I’ll go order,” Richelieu said with the air of a long-suffering parent and headed inside, the door closing behind him.

“It’s a two-coffee morning,” Louis said. “I don’t get why that man insists on drinking tea all the time. I swear he’s glued his thermos to his bag. But I suppose the nature of the job means we need enough caffeine to stay awake through those back-to-back press conferences…”

Of course, Treville’s mind supplied as he breathed in the scent of freshly brewed coffee and croissants. That man had been Armand Richelieu, the politician. He should have known the second he saw him. He’d seen him in the papers and on the news enough times, for heaven’s sake.

“I’ll give you my new phone number,” Louis said suddenly, his voice no longer sleepy. “We must keep in touch. It’s no good that we’ve got to meet like this just so we can talk.”

Treville rummaged around in his pockets for his phone, and as soon as he’d typed in his password Louis took it from his hand and started typing. No doubt Treville would find that they were now friends on those message apps Porthos had insisted Treville would have on his phone.

Treville took in Louis’s floral tie and carefully arranged curls, content that his friend was doing well.

“There we go,” Louis said proudly and handed the phone back.

The door opened to reveal Richelieu carrying four cups of coffee on a tray and a bag that held at least one sandwich and a few pastries. Louis was smiling widely at them both, as if he was having the time of his life, already eyeing the bag of pastries.

“It was nice to meet you,” Richelieu said politely, nodding at Treville before turning towards Louis. “I’m afraid we must hurry if we aren’t going to be late.”

“Yes, yes,” Louis replied, not looking worried at all and grabbing one of those iced coffee drinks from the tray. “See you around, Treville.”

Treville nodded and watched as the car slid back into traffic. Then he went inside the café and stood in line before ordering a large black coffee and taking a handful of the free sugar-cubes in the bowl beside the counter.

It must have been the exhaustion and vague memories of seeing Richelieu’s face in the press or online too many times causing him to act like this. Youtube videos of him smiling when talking about his cats on live television and clips of one of his thunderous speeches all smashing together into mistakenly assuming that they knew each other. And Louis smiling at them both, as if he was going to forge a friendship between them with his bare hands if that is what it took. Giving Treville his new phone number is just the start.

Or an excuse to send him messages when he’s bored. With stickers and reaction gifs, if he was any judge. D’Artagnan already sent him so many of those when Treville tried to use the group chat function.

Treville took a fortifying gulp of coffee and felt the caffeine and sugar hit his bloodstream like freight train. A few more hours of work, most of it waiting and tidying up before he’d head home to rest.

Soon the city would be enveloped in heat. But for now, Treville walked past the wildflowers growing by the sidewalk and breathed in the cool air.

 

 

“Have you introduced me to Treville before?” Richelieu asked when Louis had made himself comfortable and. Jussac glanced at them once before easing out of the lane and veering to the left, towards their workplace.

The radio was set on low, but it was playing some pop songs since hearing the news first thing caused Richelieu to grind his teeth and Louis’s mood to sour. Classical and orchestra music was reserved for the drive back home and the bad pain days.

“Hm?” Louis said, focusing on drinking his coffee. “I thought you’d already met?”

“I’d remember that if that were the case,” Richelieu said. “Somehow I feel that we have. Someplace.”

It was as if someone had reached into the very core of his being and twisted, turning a lock he’d never even known was there in the first place. Half-forgotten dreams of blue eyes and blue cloaks and leather boots surfaced briefly, like paper boats in a grand river.

Richelieu poured his tea into his travel mug. It was red, since it was handy to never have to worry about losing it or someone mistaking it for their own mug. The thermos was also red, but that usually contained chamomile tea in case he ran out of tea bags at work.

He kept his own tea blend at home. It was always a relief to brew that when he’d had a long day and a long evening on top. There was hectic day ahead of them, even worse than normal. Having a good cup of tea wouldn’t change that, but it would help.

“I must have talked about him so much that I’d forgotten that you didn’t know each other,” Louis said, swirling his drink, apparently enjoying the way the ice sounded clinking against the plastic. “Well, you’ve met now. He’s an old friend.”

“Oh?” Richelieu asked, closing the lid on his mug while Louis continued to admire his artistic-looking iced coffee, with its creamy top and decorative caramel syrup and chocolate shavings.

“Knew his father too,” Louis said, through the straw. “He’s a good man, Treville. Honest. Shouts a lot when he’s unhappy about something.”

“ _Kind of hot, though_ ,” someone on the radio sang.

Richelieu stared at the radio, affronted that it could read his thoughts, although in a crude manner. He met people on a daily basis who considered it to be a major part of their job to know what other people desired and had never even had it right once when it came to himself. The kind of people who insisted on trying to get him to drink shitty coffee and judged his cat pictures and subsequently his desk drawers being full of lint rollers.

“Not sure you’d get along,” Louis continued. “Doesn’t much like politics.”

Richelieu nodded. Keeping silent was usually a fine tactic when dealing with an introspective Louis, as distracting him with questions made him feel interrogated instead of encouraged.

“Not even if I locked you in a cabin in the country over the weekend,” Louis mused. “You’d just kill each other by Sunday.”

It’s be a delicious Saturday night, some part of Richelieu’s mind supplied. Along with the sound of fabric fluttering in the breeze and the smell of wildflowers.

“I’m sure it doesn’t have to come to that,” Richelieu said, shaking his head in an attempt to dislodge the beginning of a fantasy about a secluded luxury cottage. “I doubt we’ll come across each other much.”

Treville was just a stranger living his life.

“You may be right,” Louis said and threw his empty plastic cup into the bag on the floor which was there for exactly that purpose. Then he picked up his other iced coffee. This one had strawberry syrup swirls and sprinkles on top of the cream. “Tell me, why is everyone so upset when they see my coffee when we arrive to a meeting?”

“They believe that you prioritize the coffee over being on time, even when we are very much on time, when they see the ice has not melted and you took the time to go the café instead of driving to work-“

“I do prioritize it,” Louis said, taking a sip. “Coffee is life.”

Richelieu leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

It was going to be a long day.


	2. Chapter 2

Everyone had their little coping strategies and self-soothing mechanisms. For some it was a hot bath, others a refreshing honey-rum ice cream cone on a scorching day. People knitted, hiked or fished or napped. Treville liked his morning runs.

Going horseback riding was a special treat. It meant he’d go home to visit his sister and spent time with his little nieces and nephews before spending the day with one of their horses. But running in the morning didn’t require such a wide timeframe or much preparation at all.

Getting up before the sun rose, with ample time to pull on his workout clothes and fill his water-bottle was a joy in itself. There was always a moment when running where there would be nothing but the pounding of his heart and the wind in his hair, the sweat dripping down his neck and soaking his back. In that moment, nothing could touch him. All worries and fears slid away, replaced with something bright as he saw the city wake up all around him as the sun rose.

Treville allowed himself to collapse on a bench in the local public park, drinking most of his water in one go. All around him, tulips and tidy roses bloomed.

“Good morning, Inspector,” a familiar voice said.

Treville looked up from wiping his face with his sleeve to see Richelieu with a bag of what appeared to be cat-treats in hand, surrounded by all sorts of cats.

The man looked….casual. Wearing a white shirt and red suspenders, his waistcoat and jacket draped over the back of the bench, he wouldn’t have looked out of place in a magazine shoot. There was even a deep red matching light scarf beside Treville. And the man’s shirt was unbuttoned at the collar.

Whenever he caught a glimpse of Richelieu in Louis’s messages, he was always dressed in one of his dark suits and usually with the expression of a man with the finest ‘is anyone else seeing this bullshit?’ expression Treville had ever seen.

Some days, Louis sent him pictures of Richelieu looking like he was perfectly willing to send people personally off to hell if that meant he could get a moment’s peace.

“A beautiful one too,” Treville breathed out. “You have the morning off work?”

Perhaps it was too personal a question. But running always left Treville more so inclined to directness than usual. But he’d seen how much the man worked, if Louis’s messages could be believed.

“Just an hour or so,” Richelieu replied, appearing unconcerned. “Louis’s sister is visiting him and he’s been roped into babysitting her son.”

“Sent me a video of them playing together,” Treville said. “Fighting with sticks, those two.”

“I cancelled a few meetings,” Richelieu said, rummaging in his bag for the last cat-treat and then offering it to a tabby cat that had clearly seen action during its life, since he was scarred and seemingly made of muscle.

“I’d offer you to sit beside me and rest,” Treville began, looking down at his sweat-soaked clothes. “But-“

Richelieu didn’t look revolted. Instead he looked curious, as if he was being offered a key to some mystery he was trying to unravel.

Treville’s phone pinged several times. Porthos. Aramis. Athos.

And then D’Artagnan sent him a gif of a man putting a saddle on a horse and riding into the dawn.

“Trouble?” Richelieu asked, pocketing the empty bag. It was as if he was pulling away from Treville, sinking into his own thoughts.

“There is always trouble,” Treville said, standing up. “I’ve got to head to work.”

Thank goodness he kept an emergency change of clothes in a bag underneath his desk. It even had a toiletry bag with a shaving kit and shampoo.

Perhaps Richelieu had one of those too. Probably more luxurious though. According to those interviews he’d seen and throw-away comments from Louis over the years, the man was richer than God.

“Of course,” Richelieu said, nodding.

Treville raised his hand in goodbye and began making his way to the station.

 

Richelieu breathed out, leaning back on the bench.

He allowed himself a minute to watch the cats, two of which had hopped on top of the bench and promptly began their mission to look as much like bread loaves as possible. Then he pulled out his phone, reading the e-mails his niece Marie had sent him, all detailed and informative about the goings-on at work. Nothing got past Marie. And that was just perfect and the reason why she was his chief of staff.

Richelieu read his color-coded and horrifically long to-do list, standing up just as Jussac hurried up to him in his neat suit, already holding a steaming thermos. Ah, it must be time to head to work.

He’d been too engrossed in mapping out his plan for the day to notice his footsteps.

“You saw your friend?” Jussac asked, grinning.

Richelieu glanced at the dozing cats beside him, but Jussac was looking at Treville’s back with an approving glint in his eyes. Richelieu nodded, buttoning his waistcoat and draped his jacket over his arm, stalking over to the car.

Rambling on about how he felt he’d met Treville before and trying to wade though faint memories that appeared to be made of dreams and split-second confusion wouldn’t help. He’d already combed though his files and found nothing on the man.

Treville wasn’t a threat.

There was no need to ask Marie or anyone to look though all her records to try to find something about him.

Treville just…had very nice eyes. And he moved like he knew exactly where he was in the world and what he was meant to be doing. Richelieu wasn’t immune to the charms of a man who looked at him as if he wanted to hear what Richelieu had to say and looked very fine while drenched in sweat.

Well.

He’d save those thoughts for later, when he’d be alone in his house where no one but his cats could see him.

The car was cool and the leather seats soft. He’d remembered to take all his medications, everything was on schedule and he could use the roller on his suit in the car so he’d be presentable at work. A cup of yogurt and a small box of blueberries sat in a neat container along with a little bunch of grapes.

“Thank you, Jussac,” Richelieu said, selecting a grape.

“No problem, sir,” Jussac said easily. “I used to make breakfast for everyone back home when I still lived on the farm. I dream about cooking bacon and baking the bread sometimes. Knew every market in town like the back of my hand.”

“Did you?” Richelieu asked, opening the yogurt.

“Learned a lot from them, too. One day I’ll make some ricotta cheese and bring it to work.”

“Someone at the market taught you how to make cheese?” Richelieu asked, spoon half way to his mouth.

“Well, I kept badgering the lady behind the table with all sorts of kid-questions on how she made all those things she had on display,” Jussac said. “And one morning she showed be how to make ricotta cheese from milk, cream, salt and vinegar.”

“Very charitable of her,” Richelieu said, popping a blueberry into his mouth.

“Madame Dupont knew what she was doing,” Jussac said, sighing. “Oh, here is Louis.”

Louis opened the door and slid inside before it could fully stop in front of his home, with an expression of a man who wanted to sleep away the next century.

Things would be fine today. They had to be.

He didn’t have time for trouble.


	3. Chapter 3

Some days when the wind changed the city was filled with the distant scent of flowers. Those were the days when Richelieu would push his bedroom window open as soon as he woke up, letting the fresh air brush away the lingering nightmares.

This time someone had tried to stab him to death. He’d fought off the attacker with a fork.

Other people had nice dreams that didn’t involve assassinations. Jussac dreamt about winning duels and eating freshly baked goods. Marie dreamt of verbally roasting people and mathematics. Milady had only smiled like a tiger when he’d asked about her dreams.

Sometimes the dreams weren’t about death lingering over his shoulder. Richelieu also dreamt about red silk and cool stone underneath his boots. About ink-stained fingers and coughing up blood onto his pillowcase. About songs he’s never heard while awake.

It had always been like this. When he was younger he’d dreamt of hymns and horses, of civil unrest and dead leaves. Some nights he didn’t dream at all, only woke to look down expecting fine embroidery on the collar of a nightgown to see his neat pajama set.

Then he’d breathe out, looking at his nightstand with its alarm clock and phone charger and stylish lamp. This was the real version, he’d remind himself.

Richelieu found his medicine box, thanking God for easy accessibility to such things. Then it was a quick shower, mostly just to rinse the sweat off and wash his hair. Dressing in a suit and tie wasn’t a hassle when his mind instinctively compared it to layers and layers of cloth that made up a robe of the sorts that he wore in his dreams. The feel of it was seemingly imprinted on his soul.

Richelieu was used to Louis striding though his dreams with the assurance of a man who knew in his bones that there were people around him that had made their lives’ work to stay by his side. Some days, when Louis would shrug in a certain way or make a comment that echoed something Richelieu felt he had heard before, he wondered what the man dreamed of.

He’d never asked.

Better not to, he’d decided, long ago. He’d never told Louis about his own dreams, not in detail. Instead he spoke of dreaming of the sound of church bells on a rainy night, of his cats and the endless paperwork. Technically, these were all true.

Most days, Richelieu tried to shove all thoughts of past lives or premonitions away and focus on current matters. Besides, surely it is common that dreams reflect your reality. The brain was just trying to process things.

Other days, he just blamed stress and exhaustion and his sleep medication for all of it.

And then one day, Louis had practically been dragging him across the sidewalk to a new restaurant for a late lunch that he’d seen Treville hurrying along while carrying some grocery bags, rain dripping off his worn leather jacket. At that moment, every fiber of Richelieu’s being went:

_Oh, there you are._

The man at the edge of his dreams, who stood beside him at court, who smelled like the air just before the storm hit, who argued with him at the top of his lungs was standing right there, in the pouring rain.

Richelieu had only caught glimpses of him in his dreams. Treville’s eyes were just as blue as they were in his dreams. He almost dropped his umbrella when Treville halted, as if someone had called his name. Then Treville had looked up and waved, which in turn made Louis wave back and elbow Richelieu in the ribs so that he did too.

“I sent him a text,” Louis whispered when three young men in police uniforms, clearly going home from work, caught up with Treville and followed him into the crowd. “So he’d know we were here too.”

Louis looked proud of himself, pointing at the text, which was a single exclamation mark.

“Well done,” Richelieu said, gripping his umbrella so that rain wouldn’t drip on them.

“You look like you just saw a ghost,” Louis said, tilting his head.

“I feel as if I did,” Richelieu admitted, swallowing. His heart hammered in his chest, the sound drowning the noise of the rain and the crowd. “Nice of you to alert the Inspector so quickly so that he could greet us.”

“I am very good at texting,” Louis said, pocketing his phone. “Now let’s get some lunch.”

“Indeed,” Richelieu said, thinking of his perfectly organized lunch box sitting on his desk. “I suppose you can’t live on fruit and cheese alone.”

Louis looked scandalized.

“That’s why your face is the color of yogurt,” he said. “You just need to eat something.”

“I-“ Richelieu began.

“No,” Louis said, pushing open the door of the restaurant. “Come on. They have fruit salad here. You love fruit salad.”

“Fruit salad is not a meal,” Richelieu protested.

“It is if you buy enough of it,” Louis said. “And I’m paying.”

They found a seat by the window. It turned out that this was an all-day brunch place.

“I’ll have the left side of the menu, please,” Louis said to the waiter. “And some mineral water.”

“Are you sure-“ the waiter began.

“Oh yes,” Louis said, pointing at the menu. “It says here that we get unlimited fruit salad if we pay more than this amount, right?”

And then he smiled like a king.

 

 

Getting most of the afternoon off was a rarity. And it was even rarer that everyone was free for game night over at Treville’s place.

There was the usual pre-game chatter and reminders of what happened last time they had played as everyone made themselves comfortable.

Treville busied himself with cooking alongside Porthos as the others set the game up, clearing the kitchen table and lining up the dice bags. It didn’t take long for Constance to join them, carrying snacks and wine.

The soup simmered away on the stovetop.

This Dungeons and Dragons game had been going on for over a year now. Now they were finally confronting the big boss, who had been lurking in the king’s castle the entire time.

“I didn’t know paladin vampires were a thing,” D’Artagnan said, his character having finally won a long-winded duel with the Cardinal’s guards. “Assuming that he is one, of course.”

“Might be,” Porthos said, who was in charge of the game-play as the Dungeon Master.

“It’s our duty as the king’s personally appointed guards to keep the kingdom safe,” Aramis said. “It’s your turn, Treville.”

“I roll to….arrest the Cardinal for treason,” Treville said, throwing the dice onto the table and glaring at the figure in red. “That no-good punk.”

“He’s more than 400 years old, sir,” D’Artagnan said with a frown.

“Doesn’t mean he’s outgrown his ways,” Treville said. “I’ll drag his ass in front of the king and-“

“Doesn’t hit,” Porthos said, nodding at them all from behind the screen. “He makes a face like you’ve hurt his feelings.”

“We’ve tried to Intimate him, but he just plain isn’t scared of us,” Constance said. “Getting rid of his guards is one thing, but he’s been steering the entire kingdom behind the scenes for so long-“

“What a bastard,” Athos said, grimacing.

“At least he’s a dignified bastard,” Treville said, standing up from his chair. “I’ll go take care of a few things. Just keep playing.”

Treville carried his laptop in his cluttered little closet of an office while his men made their turns, filing away paperwork and tidying his desk. Everything was in its place: the pile of papers was gone, his inbox was empty and all emails sent, even his little plant was thriving. He’d even written up his notes.

Going to work in the morning would be a little easier, at least.

When he came back into the kitchen Aramis was scrubbing the sink as if punishing it for its sins and Constance had just won a daring duel with the last guard.

The Cardinal proved to be just as cunning and powerful as they had suspected, causing them to lose so many hit points that everyone but Treville was on their last legs.

“I put away my short sword,” D’Artagnan said, scraping the bowl for the dregs of the soup. “And I think it might be a good idea for us to stop now. It’s getting late.”

“We’ll take him out next time,” Athos said, pointing at the little figure as if it had personally slighted him.

“Alright then,” Treville said, standing up to gather the empty bowls. They all cleaned up, used to working together. “Get home and get some sleep.”

“Goodnight, sir,” D’Artagnan said and the rest of the group nodded, most of them yawning.

“Be safe,” Treville said, closing the door as they left.

As he headed to bed, putting tomorrow’s clothes in a pile on the other side of his double bed as the wind howled outside his mind lingered on how perfectly poised Richelieu had been earlier that day, despite the bad weather and the loud crowd around him. Even his hair had been perfect, curly and the color of damn moonlight.

And the man had smiled at him as he waved, a tiny pleased smile Treville had never seen on television.

Treville adjusted his pillow and lay down, already asleep before he’d pulled the duvet all the way to his shoulders. In his dreams, he could feel silk sliding between his fingertips and hear the sounds of hooves on gravel.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Long term chronic pain meant that the body and mind grow accustomed to its presence at all times, much like a character’s musical theme in a movie or a television show. You found ways around working with that much pain because you had to.

Richelieu had always lived a dangerous life, one seeking as much power as he could get his hands on. That meant that he was used to aggressive behavior from others, used to looking for signs of betrayal and others plotting against him. That was not good for anyone’s mental health, being on alert all the time, mind swirling with thoughts deep into the night.

He was used to getting death threats, just like he was used to pain and sleepless nights. He hadn’t even blinked when he’d seen this treat in his email inbox, just alerted Milady and asked her to take care of it. He’d been pleased that his car was bulletproof and spent some time wondering if he should put his fork in his pocket in case the person who’d sent the threat would approach him and he’d have to act. A knife would perhaps be a better option, but it was a much better excuse to be able to say that he always carried his own fork in case he became unexpectedly hungry after a meeting. Carrying around a fork like this weirded people out just enough that they would inwardly shrug about rich people being odd and continue on with their day.

Unfortunately, Louis had managed to read the threat over his shoulder when Richelieu had been reading it on his laptop on their way to work. And no matter how Richelieu tried to tell Louis that he had dealt with similar threats before with great and very permanent success and that this was nothing truly serious, Louis wouldn’t budge until Richelieu agreed to consider hiring a bodyguard.

Seeing Louis ordering people around in an authoritative manner as soon as they came to work, demanding that the staff contact the government agencies that employed those who protected high-profile persons such as Richelieu, his voice strong and striding around like a man on a mission was a sight that made Richelieu’s thoughts sway in a very unprofessional way. He made no remarks about Richelieu being so important to him that he was not willing to risk his life, even if that fear was in some way, perhaps, unfounded.

But Richelieu knew that look in Louis’s eyes.

He’d seen it a thousand times in his dreams.

Richelieu’s knees wanted to meet the floor, but he kept himself steady by leaning on the nearest desk. He hoped that it made him look like he was casually posing at a photo shoot. Perhaps it worked, because Louis’s expression was a thoughtful one when he looked at Richelieu.

 

Louis did not calm down about the issue, telling him that he’d managed to pull more than a few strings to get him a good bodyguard. They were on their way to work and Louis was drinking a five shot café mocha with chocolate sprinkles on top of the cream.

“Fine,” Richelieu said, looking up from his notes. “It is not going to a permanent placement.”

“Just a temporary one,” Louis replied, a smile in his voice. “I’m glad you agreed to this.”

“Hm,” Richelieu said, not even trying to maintain a poker face. “I only agreed because when you asked, I was…distracted by other things.”

“Yeah,” Louis said, finishing his iced coffee in the self-satisfied manner of a man who has accomplished many things before breakfast. “But that is how you win at politics. By taking advantage of situations so that they go in your favor.”

“Our relationship is not just about politics, Louis,” Richelieu said, aware that he was not telling the entire truth. Politics was the foundation of their partnership, even if their friendship and on-off relationship was built on top of that, it did not change that. There were many advantages of continuing this relationship, at least for the moment. It kept him in Louis’s inner circle at all costs, it meant he had someone who cared for him and was willing to deal with most of his bullshit.

Even if it would go sour one day, that didn’t mean that it was worthless.

Richelieu had expected someone in a good suit from a security company with a truly excellent reputation. Young and handsome and somewhat brash. Or the sort of person who looked like they could fight a bear in the mountains and win.

Instead he found Inspector Treville in his office in a white shirt that had two buttons undone, looking at the little cross standing on a shelf.

This was unfair.

He could already see the smug look on Louis’s face.

“My superiors were very insistent on me taking this job,” Treville said. “Is it really a matter of national security?”

“Do you have more pressing matters to attend to?” Richelieu asked, raising an eyebrow.

“My mound of paperwork must be a tiny thing in comparison to yours,” Treville said, pressing his mouth into a thin line. Oh, that was interesting. Richelieu could already see the fire in the man’s eyes, the contained violence in his movements. This was a man who could start and end fights in a blink of an eye and still look damn good doing it.

 “Still, I’ve got stuff to do if you don’t want me here.” Treville was saying.

“I do,” Richelieu said.

“You do look like a man who gets a lot of death threats,” Treville replied. “Someone’s got to have your back.”

“I’ve managed to survive this far,” Richelieu said. “There have been a few attempts, but nothing a visit to the ER hasn’t managed to fix.”

Treville stared.

“What did you just say?” he said. “Someone has tried to assassinate you before and almost succeeded? Several times?”

“It comes with the job,” Richelieu said, fighting the urge to shrug.

He did not say: “I employ my own spies who are trained in dealing with life-and-death situations.”

He did not say: “I dream about rotting away in a cell for months on end, hidden away from everyone, and those nightmares are worse than anything that can be done to my body.”

He did not say: “Can you hear the rustle of your cloak as you move, the one that is only visible in the right light? Do you see my robes? Do you dream of me as well?”

Instead he sighed, aware of the outrage in Treville’s eyes, how he’d taken a few steps towards Richelieu as he wanted to lift him up and shake him like a salt container.

“Not anymore it doesn’t,” Treville said, after a long silence. “I’m staying until the danger has passed.”

“Alright, then,” Richelieu said.

“My resume and papers are on your desk,” Treville said. “So are the resumes and files on the other police officers who were considered as competent enough to ensure your safety.  All highly trained and experienced.”

Richelieu started looking through the files, aware of Treville’s eyes on him. Marie had already told him all the information in Treville’s personal file and more, even little things like Treville’s favorite kind of bread and that his favorite mode of transportation was horseback riding.

Up close the man was far better looking than his profile picture suggested. He could probably lift Richelieu as easily as a sack of feathers and carry him over his shoulder if he needed to.

“Let’s get started, then,” Richelieu said, meeting Treville’s eyes.

Treville nodded and began checking the windows for vantage points, probably looking for secret passages and Heaven knew what else. His boots thudded on the floor as he walked from room to room.

At some point Richelieu looked up from work and saw that Treville was chatting with Louis, a serious expression on his face. Louis, on the other hand, looked delighted.

It was midnight when Richelieu closed his laptop for the night and saw that Treville was standing by the door, blue eyes alert and posture ramrod straight.

“Will you be following me home?” Richelieu asked. “Or are you going to leave now and someone else takes over?”

“Louis told me that you have a guest bedroom, so I will be staying there,” Treville said. “In a week there will be some rotation, if the treat is no longer at such a high level.”

“And here I thought you’d stay in my bedroom,” Richelieu said, meaning it to sound like a sarcastic joke. Instead it sounded like he was flirting. They strode down the stairs from his office and Jussac caught up with them, the car keys jingling in his hand.

“Would that make you feel safer?” Treville asked, all business.

Richelieu thought of the nights when he could not sleep because his mind would not rest, about waking up with his nightclothes soaked in sweat and his lungs not getting enough air, about the medication boxes on his nightstand.

Not even Louis had been allowed to see just how bad things could get, not once. But Treville had probably seen a lot of shit through the years. Perhaps having another person around would bring the paranoia and anxiety down.

“It’s enough to have you in the house, I think,” Richelieu said. “I hope you like cats. I have five of them at the moment.”

Treville looked at him like a man willing to make sacrifices to make a job work out.

“Let’s get tea-to-go before we head home,” Richelieu said, striding towards the door. “You look like you might want to get some black coffee or something of that kind.”

Treville said nothing, just inclined his head so that his eyes were briefly hidden.

“I’m thinking of getting that mint tea they have on sale,” Jussac said cheerfully, opening the car door for Richelieu.  Treville got in too, not even a hair out of place.

The car slid into what was left of the evening traffic.

They’d be home soon.

**Author's Note:**

> I might add some more chapters eventually, if the inspiration strikes.
> 
> "Kinda hot though" is from an 5 Seconds of Summer song called "She's Kinda Hot."


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